Question Serenity
by Lord Yellowtail
Summary: Justice League Unlimited crossover. Post HBP. When a Death Eater attack leaves Luna destitute and alone, she is forced to face a painful truth about her beloved father and a family member she never knew she had: a Muggle vigilante called The Question.
1. Panic in the Sky

A/N: As usual, I own nothing. This story assumes the reader has knowledge of _Harry Potter_ canon through _Half Blood Prince_, and Justice League Unlimited canon through the season two episode _Divided We Fall._ Any shipping will occur according to my personal preferences, though I have no intention of throwing out the romance portions of _HBP._ This chapter is meant as a prologue to gauge interest in this particular plot, so please read and let me know what you think. All feedback is welcome and appreciated. Enjoy.

Vic Sage found it darkly amusing, the way the majority of his so-called colleagues did everything in their power to avoid him as he roamed the halls of the Justice League's space station. Some of them even looked like they were considering throwing themselves out the nearest airlock if it meant avoiding him--he was pretty sure some of the jumpier vacuum-immune metas had in the past. A weak, dry chuckle welled up from somewhere deep in his chest. Batman put so much effort into coming off as a demon from hell to intimidate others; it was so much simpler to completely obscure one's facial features with a skin-tone mask. _At least I don't have to deal with all that chafing body armor._ Of course, Italian suits weren't exactly bulletproof, so there was a considerable tradeoff.

On the other hand, he didn't garner the respect the cowled detective did. The Batman had few friends, but no one on the Watchtower was likely to call the Dark Knight a nutjob when they thought he was out of earshot. _No matter_, he thought, walking purposefully past a group of gawking technicians, his light blue trench coat billowing behind him, and clutching the folder under his arm a little tighter. _Let them stare if they wish._ It had been a great many years since the ridicule had truly disturbed him. Now it was just ... annoying. He swept past Huntress' room, the faintest of smiles playing across his hidden face. There were far more positive emotions worthy of his focus, even if he didn't have a great many people to share them with.

He shook his head. Now was not the time for such thoughts. He glanced down at the folder, his memory providing him with the details of the gruesome photographs it contained. _Not the time, indeed_, he thought, once more wishing he hadn't eaten before reviewing the evidence as his stomach gave a plaintive lurch. He shook his head as he turned the corner, and it was only a second later, when Supergirl--or rather, a blond female-shaped blur that smelled vaguely of hay and mint-leaf shampoo that was most likely Supergirl--charged into him, sending him crashing into the bulkhead and his files hurtling across the carpeted deck, that it occurred to him that walking with one's eyes closed in the Watchtower, even for an instant, was in fact very, very stupid.

"Question!" And of course, having just sent him reeling quite painfully into a reinforced wall, she _would_ feel it necessary to scream his name loud enough to make his ears ring. She peered down at him, green eyes wide with concern, and he wondered not for the first time how she managed to convince Superman to let her wear Daisy Duke shorts and a tube top when she was on Justice League business. It seemed oddly out of character for the man. She flushed. "Are you alright? J'onn just paged me and I guess I wasn't looking where I--"

He held up a black-gloved hand and braced the other against a wall, starting to push himself to his feet. "No harm done." A twinge of pain shot down his back as he moved and he frowned--much to his chagrin, it seemed even after three weeks his body wasn't completely recovered from serving as Brainiac-Luthor's punching bag and the week of interrogations that followed. "I know from experience that it's unwise to keep the Martian waiting." His lip quirked up, not that she would be able to tell, and he straightened his hat.

Supergirl blinked at him, still looking a little embarrassed. "Uh, yeah. Guess I should be a bit more careful."

_That makes two of us._ "It might not be a bad idea." He crouched and began to scoop up his papers, hoping she wouldn't decide to be helpful. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her swooping for a photo that had fallen at her feet. _So much for hope._ "Thank you, but I can manage on my own..." He trailed off; she had already picked it up, and was now turning a rather unflattering shade of green. He frowned sharply. _Wonderful. Guess now isn't the time to ask if she's been sleeping well._ He held out a hand, catching the photo and sliding it back into the folder. "I think now it is my turn to apologize." He shuffled the rest of the papers up; he could re-order them later. "I didn't intend for you to see that."

She swallowed, still looking pale. "Who -- what -- did that?" She shuddered. "That poor man ... he looked chewed on."  
_More observant than I thought. Still too sentimental._ "I don't know," the detective muttered, as if he had just been asked how to find the bathroom, and tucking the folder back under his arm, "but I've promised to find out." He sighed. It wasn't exactly a lie, but it wasn't the whole truth either. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a meeting to prepare for." He brushed past the stunned Argonian and hurried towards his quarters. The last thing he wanted to do was _not_ be prepared when Batman showed up.

The Question grimaced as he finished typing the information from Inspector Harris' file into his personal database. He made a point of being extra-thorough during even the most mundane investigation, and that meant scrutinizing all the evidence again as he went, not only to commit it to memory, but also to properly tune the parameters of the program he would use to monitor the news feeds for reports of similar incidents. This was the third time he'd gone over everything in detail, and he prided himself on having a strong stomach when it came to these sorts of things, but one could only look at so many eviscerated corpses before--he shook his head and did his best to drive the images from his mind as his stomach tried to tie itself in a knot. He felt a bolt of fury flash through him. _Savages, whoever did this._ A touch of righteous anger was often the best cure for nausea, in his experience.

His door chime rang. Running a gloved hand through his raven hair, The Question picked his hat up off the desk and pulled it on his head, tipping it forward just enough to cast shadow over the sunken patches of psuedoderm where his eyes were supposed to be. The door was only twenty feet away, and in the back of his mind, it occurred to him that it was slightly ironic some of the most powerful metahumans on earth chose to live in what amounted to an orbiting dormitory. _And somehow, I'm right up here with them._ He cast a cursory glance at his wall, at the scores of articles and clippings pinned up and connected by a myriad of string that represented his latest theories on The Conspiracy. Batman would study it, he knew, if only surreptitiously. Even if he _did_ think it was rubbish, Vic was confident the dark detective at least considered him otherwise competent. _If he didn't, he wouldn't have consented to meet._

Pausing for the merest instant in front of a full length mirror hung on the wall to straighten the black tie leaning against his mustard yellow shirt and smooth the wrinkles out of his navy blue jacket, he pressed a panel near the door and watched it slide open, revealing the horned, scowling face of the Dark Knight. Vic stepped aside and back a little--just so he wouldn't have to crane to look up at the man's blank white eyes--and put out a hand he knew the other vigilante wouldn't take. "Batman." He kept his voice toneless, professional. "Thank you for coming." He never made a big deal out of it, of course, but Batman didn't really intimidate him like he did others--underneath all that Kevlar and the black cloak, he was just a man, one who had made a vow never to kill and honored it, even when he faced maniacs like the Joker. The devotion to justice he represented was something to be respected, not feared.

"Question," Batman's voice was gravel, every bit the self-restrained demon. He swept past the shorter detective as if it were _his_ quarters they were meeting in, his cape swishing behind him. The Question couldn't help marveling at the image before him. If he were correct about the identity of the man behind the mask, his acting skills were perhaps unrivaled in all of modern history. The real enigma came down to which persona was the actual act. But that wasn't the riddle he was out to solve today. "You said you needed my opinion on something." His voice dripped with a touch of inconvenience.

"Indeed, I believe you have singular expertise on the subject," Question returned smoothly. "If you would step over here, please."

Batman quirked an eyebrow, intrigued perhaps, but followed along quietly. Question gestured at the extra chair he'd sat near the workstation, and watched Batman sink into it. Vic took the seat opposite and began to type once again, calling up the files he would need. "I'd offer you some refreshments, but we both know you'd decline, so I'm not going to patronize you."

Batman didn't move, but Vic swore he saw the ghost of a smirk on the man's face. "You've added more strings to your wall," he said flatly.

Vic allowed himself a hidden smile. Any other time he would have returned the light barb, but a dozen corpses' gaping, horror struck faces told him quite unequivocally to forego their usual verbal sparing. "I assume you've been keeping up with the rather ... grim happenings in Great Britain?"

Batman's facial expression never changed, though the starlight lenses in his mask seemed to narrow. "You don't honestly expect me to say 'no,' do you?"

"No," Question said, in that same practiced calm that made him sound as if he were discussing the weather, "I just couldn't think of a better way to start this conversation. I assume then, you're aware of the bridge disaster, the grisly murders the Prime Minister's detractors are having such a field day with--"

"Junior Minister Chorley's suddenly acting like a mallard," Batman finished, the barest scowl on his face. "I suppose you believe this all has something to do with your conspiracy." The growl deepened. "Question, I don't have time--"

"I know," Vic said calmly. Batman respected his skills, he was sure, but still had certain preconceptions about his "eccentricities," as he called them. "My reasons for asking you here having nothing to do with The Conspiracy. I believe I've discovered a separate cover-up operation, of a lesser but quite significant scope."

Question could imagine the Batman's eyes rolling. "You yourself said there were no such things as multiple conspiracies. Only one. The Illuminati." The barest trace of derision tinged his voice, but that was to be expected.

"And I stand by that assertion," Question picked up the folder, holding it in his lap. "The difference is subtle, like the comparison between a centipede and a millipede. Not every cover-up is necessarily part of some larger, more sinister plot, though large, sinister plots necessitate some form of cover-up." He sighed. "Some are quite sinister enough on their own. I asked you of the events in Britain to prove a point. They're remarkably well publicized, even if they are baffling and ... unsettling. I would say, by now, the world is very aware all is not right within the borders of the United Kingdom."

Batman said nothing for a moment, and then nodded curtly. "Agreed."

_In other words, get to the point._ "You would think, then," he handed the folder to the Urban Legend, "_this_ would've shown up on CNN." Batman wordlessly opened the folder, flipping through it at speed, until he suddenly stopped, the barest gasp escaping his lips. Unless Vic was very much mistaken, a muscle twitched in the bigger man's jaw. He went back to the beginning, moving more slowly this time.

_And now_, Question thought grimly, _I have your full attention._ He knew what had stopped the vigilante--he'd deliberately arranged the photos, placing one of the more gruesome at the front. It centered on a man in his late twenties, tall, tan, and quite handsome. Or, at least, he would've been, had he not appeared decapitated and literally ripped into pieces. The remains themselves appeared, as Supergirl had said, chewed on. Vic would've never been able to tell what color the furniture in the room was supposed to be if he hadn't read the homicide detective's report--everything was soaked in blood.

"What the devil is this, Vic?" Batman rasped, his tone lost somewhere between outrage, bewilderment, and disgust.

Question grimaced. Though he certainly wasn't afraid of Batman, seeing him angry was always ... unpleasant. "If I believed in the Devil, I'd consider him a prime suspect, but since I don't, things are a bit more ... complicated."

"Figures," Batman scowled. "You're right," he continued, almost grudgingly, "this is all too gruesome for the press to ignore. The missing children should've got some attention, at any rate. Someone's suppressing it, and doing a very ... impressive job. How did you get involved?" His tone was flat, now, but Question clearly heard the interest in his voice.

_Excellent._ Question steepled his gloved fingers and met his associate's eyes. "Two weeks ago, I was contacted by a friend of mine with Scotland Yard, Inspector Jack Harris."

"Profiler," Batman interjected. "Specializes in ultra-violent killers. The best in the United Kingdom," he finished, sounding just slightly impressed. Which, for Batman, indicated quite a bit of respect. "I'm not surprised he was involved in something this ... extreme."

Question nodded. _But you _are_ surprised he considers someone as "tightly wound" as me a friend._ "_Was_ being the operative word. He came to me two days ago. Showed up at my apartment, in fact, acting like someone was after him. I'd never seen him so on edge before. He demanded a meeting, in private, time and place of his choosing. I must admit I was curious, and I owe the man more favors than I care to count. I had to cancel on Helena. She was ... nonplussed, to say the least."

Batman nodded. "He hit you with this. Probably figured you wouldn't be able to resist."

A nod. There was a veiled insult there, but that was beside the point. "The file you're holding," Question continued placidly, "does not exist." He turned his monitor to face Gotham's avenger, revealing a report on a rash of pet mutilations, "Its case number now corresponds to this comparatively innocuous investigation, and apparently always has." He cracked his knuckles loudly. "Here's where things begin to get _truly_ interesting. Jack claimed, over the course of about thirty-six hours, his associates working the case began to change. The whole affair seemed to be slipping from their memories. The missing children were now recorded as runaways, the deceased as victims of various unfortunate accidents. Once he realized none of them were 'having him on,' as he put it, he came to me, carrying the paper hardcopy you're holding now, and begging for help."

"He prefers to work with paper, doesn't he? He would've made a personal set of the evidence and reports and kept it at home." The lenses in the cowl narrowed to slits. "Meanwhile, the computerized copy vanishes and everyone seems to suffer from some sort of ... " he trailed off and shook his head slightly, and Vic had to wonder if he was inwardly cursing himself for volunteering to listen to "the village whacko" in the first place. (Really, Vic figured someone like The Flash could've come up with a more interesting insult.) "Question, what's got you convinced this isn't some sort of scam? You said Harris is your friend, but it's conceivable someone could be using him in an entrapment operation. I doubt very much we saw the complete disbandment of Cadmus. I would imagine any remnants would still be holding a grudge--it's barely been a month since you helped expose their alliance with Luthor. Something doesn't add up here, and you know it."

Question's eyebrow quirked up, and he smirked underneath the pseudoderm mask. "I thought _I_ was the paranoid one, Batman. But you're right. This does reek of a setup designed specifically to get _my_ attention. Add the fact that I called on Jack this morning to ask his opinion on one of my leads, and--"

"Let me guess. He has no memory of ever talking to you," Batman cut in, his voice almost snide.

"On the contrary," Question went on, "he was convinced I had agreed to help with an animal mutilation case. Why I would do so, I have no clue, and neither did he. As soon as I got off the phone with him, I called you. I've also moved all my digitized files on these incidents to the Watchtower mainframe." He shook his head. "Sounds familiar, doesn't it? A standard conspiracy-suspense novel plot--I should know, I've read my share. Rather unimaginative trap. You'd think someone in a position to engineer such a detailed scenario would be a bit more ... creative."

"So why am I here? You said yourself this whole thing looks like some sort of trick." Batman turned his face away from the monitor, his scowl almost painful-looking. "Surely you didn't bring me here so I could see that you are, in fact, _not_ a moron."

_For a genius, you have a very short attention span._ "As I said before, I needed your expertise. The forensics on the bite wounds, as you saw, were inconclusive as of the initial reports. The chief examiner called for a further investigation, but that never seemed to occur. I've enhanced the first photo. See anything familiar?" He pressed a few keys, and a close up of one of the grisly bite wounds filled the large screen. A second passed, and Batman sat bolt upright, opaque lenses now wide. In the back of his mind, Question made a note to ask him one day how they did that. "Good. You see it too. I'm not surprised the MEs were confused. I realize saying this has lost some of it's impact, given that we work on a space station with an immortal Amazon princess formed from clay, but this just isn't _normal_."

"Impossible," Batman hissed.

Question frowned beneath the pseudoderm. _You're lying. Interesting._ "You know better than that. When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth." Batman was scowling at him now, about to open his mouth to retort. "Don't look at me like that. It's Occam's Razor, only, a bit more eloquent. Now," he let his voice become just a tad bit forceful, for really, catering to Batman's ego got a bit tiring after a while, "the bite marks. At first glance, they appear human. Combine that with the missing children, and I'd be nearly convinced we're dealing with a Manson family copycat who's seen _Silence of the Lambs_, or something similar. But ..."

"The bite marks are ... contradictory," Batman ground out, almost grudgingly unless Vic's ears were playing tricks on him. "The cuts resemble those that would be caused by human teeth, but the wounds themselves indicate something more animalistic. Pattern most closely resembles _Canis lupus_."

"So it's not a man," Question said softly, "and it's not a wolf. So the question I pose to you is this," he turned in his chair, meeting those white lenses with his own pseudoderm covered hollows, "Dr. Milo once used a serum to turn a Anthony Romulus, formerly of the US Olympic Track and Field Team, into something very much resembling a werewolf. I'm sure you remember, seeing as you had the unpleasant job of subduing the beast. As for Milo, all evidence points to the good doctor being slaughtered by Doomsday after joining Cadmus some months ago. What are the chances someone else could've duplicated the formula in abundance and distributed through the United Kingdom's underworld?" For once, Question hoped he was wrong, and the chances were actually very good.

Batman crossed his arms over his chest and narrowed his eyes. "Virtually nonexistent, Question. Milo was a genius, but he was a greedy, paranoid extortionist, too. He wanted a firm hold on Romulus."

Question detected a bitter note in the Caped Crusader's voice now--_Did you know the Olympian?_

"The serum and antidote were designed _specifically_ for Romulus' use. Milo never had any intention of mass-producing it. And as I said, the doctor preferred his leverage: there were no written records of his research, at least not the important parts. Everything stayed in his head. I doubt very much he would have shared it with anybody else--he found repeating projects boring."

_That proves nothing, Batman, and you know it. It's not like you ignore forensic evidence in your analysis. As interesting as I find evasion..._ Question adjusted his hat. "Are you sure? He was working for Cadmus. They had ... most powerful methods of persuasion when it came to getting information they wanted. Perhaps you have data available on the sort of bite marks Mr. Romulus would leave. I'd be interested in conducting a comparison, just to be thorough."

"No," Batman returned sharply. He sighed. "You're not going to let this go, are you?"

"Should I?" Question asked calmly. _Touchier than I expected._ "Would you?"

Batman sighed heavily. "Romulus didn't feel the need--or maybe just didn't have the chance--to attempt cannibalism, but he left plenty of bite marks. I studied the pattern thoroughly, and can tell you conclusively this is _not_ him, or anyone like him." Q quirked his head to the side, but said nothing. "Milo created a werewolf, alright, straight out of a fairy-tale book. It was very _idealized_, for lack of a better word. Every tooth resembled a fang, even those in the back of the mouth. On these bites," he pointed with two fingers at the screen, "you can clearly see a difference between incisors, bicuspids, this even looks like some sort of molar. It looks distinctly--"

"More natural?" Batman scowled. _Not used to being interrupted, I'm sure._ "What about gene splicing? As far as I know the tech's not nearly advanced enough for this yet, but maybe you've heard different."_ He'll shoot that down too--unless I get lucky._ He shifted in his chair, and the fabric of his shirt rubbed uncomfortably over the remnants of the electrical burn across his shoulder. _Not likely._

"At least fifteen years away from human testing," Batman growled.

Question scowled. "So that's it, then," he huffed, "that leaves the one obvious conclusion. The creatures are _real_ werewolves," he announced, sounding like he'd just found a cockroach in his bathtub. _Damn._ Sometimes, he really _did_ hate being right.

Batman spun on him, almost gaping. "_Excuse me?_ I've supported your wild ideas in the past, Vic, but surely you don't expect me to agree that some _mythical creature_--you said yourself all mysteries can be solved through reason. Falling back to fairy tale explanations when you've hit a block is _not_ reason." He sounded increasingly defensive now, and Question found himself amused.

_What? You wanted to keep the secret to yourself?_ "They're not mythical, obviously. To do this, they'd have to be very much real. And besides, we have more than one very powerful magic user in the League. You yourself are friends with an immortal knight of Arthur who shares his body with a demon. There's obviously more out there than traditional science would care to admit. Oh," he added sharply, "and I'd rather you not accuse me of shoddy investigative skills, not when you're ignoring certain bits of the evidence in that file. The attacks occurred over the course of the last three months, during or within forty-eight hours of a full moon. No sign of forced entry or exit. It's as though the murderers just _appeared_ and _vanished_ when they were through. And let's not overlook the poor man involved in the sixth incident. Apparently, no one wanted to eat him--he appears to have simply dropped dead with a look of horror on his face. No obvious cause, unless you buy the 'severe emotional trauma' tripe. It's as though he simply _ceased_. And you have to admit, the other unfortunate events happening defy logical explanation as well. Bridges do not snap without signs of stress fractures, and hurricanes don't just _appear_ off the coast of England with zero warning. Something is happening there that _defies science._"

Question allowed himself a glare. He wasn't really angry with Batman, of course, but certainly disappointed. _The one time I wouldn't have minded having one of my theories shot to ribbons._ "Like you said, reason is the key to all riddles. But you must have all the salient facts. Here we do, even if we might not want to admit it. Unless you have a better suggestion, I have no choice to assume we're dealing with genuine werewolves. Plural. I can't explain their existence, but I'm willing to accept it for now. And the seeming lack of pattern in the locations of the attacks--I'm almost certain, if we knew more about this ... phenomenon ... they would not appear random at all. That is, of course, unless you have a more traditional hypothesis you'd care to share."

Batman was silent for a full minute. Finally, "Stay out of it, Vic. You're right. Harris dragged you into something ... neither of us is prepared to deal with. There are people who handle this sort of thing. Your friend had his memory altered because he became aware of things he was simply not meant to know." Batman sighed, and his voice lost some the gravel when he continued. "I know how it sounds, Vic--I hate it too, especially when we get wind of this sort of _carnage_, but we've got to stay out of this."

Question felt the frown coming back. _That's it, then. Damn it._ Of course, Batman knew he wouldn't do any such thing. "Why?" he asked glibly. "Because we're Muggles?" Batman, who had started to rise, fell back in his chair abruptly. _I need to contact Lovegood when this is over, our agreement be damned. I need to warn him._

"You _knew?_" Batman shouted, his composure apparently shot, "you _knew_ and you--I don't appreciate being led on, Sage. You have thirty seconds to explain exactly what your game is. _Start talking._"

"Don't threaten me, Batman," Question shot back, his own control wavering, "I am _not_ in the mood." He was surprised at the venom suddenly in his voice, but he had to admit, for all the man's exemplary qualities, the Dark Knight's superior attitude could be _extraordinarily_ grating. _You can't imagine what's at stake here to me, Batman_, he wanted to yell, and he hated that. Then again, anything remotely to do with _her_ usually threw him off his game. The Urban Legend looked taken aback. Vic doubted anyone but the founding members of the League dared speak to him without cowing in fear. "Honestly? You're smarter than me. Don't look so surprised; I admit it freely. Things I would have to research, you know by heart, and you've been at this longer than me--your experience significantly exceeds mine.

"You're right, of course. I am aware that Zatanna and the other magic users in the Justice League only represent an inkling of what's out there. I haven't had as much experience with magic as you might think--the idea that werewolves might be real hadn't occurred to me before this case fell in my lap. In fact, I've made an effort to avoid the Wizarding World, if you want to call it that. But what little exposure I have had left me open-minded enough to guess what was going on. I was hoping I was wrong, and you would find something I missed, something more mundane. That didn't happen. You confirmed my hypotheses in regards to the forensics, albeit reluctantly. Furthermore, you would never give up on an investigation, not when innocent people are dying. Not unless you were sure you were out of your league. And you would never admit to that, not in _this_ world," he finished, pleased to have regained his calm. "But in the magical one, perhaps you would."

Batman stared at him for a long moment, his mouth a thin, hard line, and for once, Question had no idea what might be going on under the mask. It had only been important to either disprove or reasonably confirm his werewolf theory; he hadn't done much thinking on what would happen afterwards. _He's not storming off. I suppose that's a good sign._

"Question," he said softly, almost uncomfortably, "what made you so sure I would know about Wizarding society?"

He seemed put off now, and Vic could guess why. The great and mysterious Batman wouldn't like the thought that someone could make such frighteningly accurate assumptions about him. "I wasn't completely sure. But I know you traveled the world when you were younger, hoping to learn anything and everything that could help you with your mission. I overheard Zatanna telling the Amazon you studied a form of magic with her father. I stumbled on the world of _real_ magic by complete accident--I'm quite certain you discovered it through deliberate investigation."

Batman nodded. "Close enough."

"But you couldn't learn it. You aren't _magical_. If I may be so bold, is that why you distrust magic users so much?" Question asked.

"Partly," Batman answered, sounding a bit more relaxed. "The idea that there are ... techniques ... available that could be used against me but I can have no knowledge of was, and is, very troubling." He finished very quietly, and Question guessed this wasn't something he particularly liked admitting.

"Indeed," Question mused. He hadn't been looking for anything in particular when he stumbled into that other world. But he had sure found something wonderful. _And I lost nearly all of it ..._

"Is there anything else?" Batman cut into his thoughts gruffly, as though he hadn't just shared a small bit of his past. "I stand by what I said. You can't help them with this, Vic. It's beyond either of us."

"I know," Question smiled under the mask, for he had _seen_ it, after all, "but I have to try, anyway."

Batman sighed, as though he'd expected this. "You realize, as skilled as you are, it would be like journeying to a completely alien world. The culture, history, even some of the language, it would all be like nothing you'd ever seen before. Not to mention the great abundance of people who can transfigure matter, manipulate your emotions, or _kill you_ with a thought. That doesn't even begin to cover a fraction of what they're capable of."

"I know," Question said again. "I'm very well aware that I would be severely handicapped. I'd probably have better luck walking into a bear cave, blindfolded and naked and covered in honey." _Note to self. Never say preceding sentence in presence of Huntress. She would get ... ideas._

Batman's eyebrows shot up. Vic suddenly remembered the vigilante's photographic memory and considered apologizing for the mental image, but decided it best to let it pass.

"As long as you don't do it on League time," Batman muttered, "I can't stop you, but _why_? I may disagree with some of your more esoteric assertions, but you've always had ... passable ... reasons for the things you do."

Question nodded. "I owe you that much, I suppose. Three factors, Batman: one, even though he cannot remember it, I gave Harris my word to do whatever I could to get to the bottom of this, and I keep the few promises I make; two, the 'people who handle this sort of thing' aren't doing a very good job, not if this file is any indication, I'm thinking they could use all the help they can get; and three," he trailed off. _Don't have to tell him everything._ "I have a personal stake in the matter," he finished, making it clear he considered the discussion closed. Batman looked mildly interested again, but Vic knew he wouldn't press him. He valued his own privacy too much.

"You've decided on a plan, I take it?" Batman asked. Question recognized the tone. Whatever it was, the Dark Knight wanted no part of it.

"I have a reasonably well-connected contact in Ottery St. Catchpole. I've never called on him for anything like this, but I think he'll agree to one conversation, at least. That will be enough to get--" he broke off, interrupted by rather loud shrill from his terminal. It stopped as abruptly as it began, the speakers shifting into a synthesized rendition of "Disco Inferno." On the screen, the message notification icon flashed once, bright red.

"... Interesting e-mail notification," Batman said after a moment, sounding like he was trying hard not to chuckle.

But Vic barely heard him. He had indulged himself over the years in setting a variety of customized e-mail alarms--when he received a message from his accountant redirected from his home ISP, for instance, the terminal launched into a serviceable rendition of Darth Vader's theme. But this ... this was much worse than an inquiry from an over-reaching, over-greedy government money pit. This was a far more special alarm, and given the circumstances, far more ominous.

He was vaguely aware of Batman calling his name--he felt like someone had slammed a pair of seashells against his ears, and all he could make out was a dull roar. Annoying how the man continued to do that, it wasn't like Question had willingly shared his identity. If Vic ever called him Bruce he was sure the Dark Knight would take the liberty of removing several of his more prominent teeth. But he couldn't bring himself to respond. His mind suddenly flashed back more than sixteen years...

It had been their first anniversary--one month--and Selene had dragged him to some over-bright, too-neon nightclub in London--not that he had struggled much. He was young and almost innocent and desperately in love--it never occurred to him to throw up the emotional barricades Huntress would force herself through fifteen years later. He would've done far more drastic things than dance to disco music if she'd asked. She hadn't demanded it become "their song," thank God, but it always stuck out in his memory. He'd told her he loved her the first time that night, meant it with everything he had, and when she'd said it back, for one fleeting instant all was right with the universe.

Ten years later, when he'd revealed himself to her widower in order to offer any help he could with the girl--the forbidden, ethereal moonbeam he dreamt of whenever he was too weak to stop himself--he'd taught William Lovegood how to use a computer to send electronic messages. It had taken ten hours and reserves of patience Vic hadn't known he possessed, but when it was done, he found himself left with the slight dilemma of what sort of tune this man's messages should bear. It had been a trivial thing, something to take his mind off Selene's death. He decided later his subconscious had a cruel sense of humor.

_Wrong. This is wrong._ William sent him two letters a year, one in late September after she'd settled in at boarding school and another following her exams in the summer. Pictures in the fall. Glorious, magical little slips of paper on which she danced and waved and stared up curiously at him with her unblinking pale silver-blue eyes. Detailed, pages-long missives letting him know how she was, like a foster parent might write--though William was certainly more than that. So much more that Vic found himself fighting back envy more often than he cared to admit, especially as the years went on. But they had an agreement--two letters a year was a sort of glorious torture, any more and Vic could've very well become addicted to them. Vic sent gifts at Christmas and on her birthday, to be given as though they were from William, and that was it.

But it was barely August, and here was another. There were only a handful of circumstances in which the rules were to be broken, and the thought of any of them sent a chill down his spine. His hands began to move for the keyboard as if by their own power. He was dimly aware that Batman had risen and was coming to stand behind him--why couldn't he just _leave_ already? But he couldn't manage to speak, couldn't look away from the terminal, it was as though his mind was crashing down around him. Only one thought was still clear. _Wrong. This is wrong._

His fingers, to which he felt only the vaguest attachment, found the keys they were looking for, and in the next instant a text-filled window appeared on the screen. He managed to gather himself enough to read...

The headers were all in order: the message was indeed from William, sent to one of Vic's dummy accounts in the Virgin Islands and redirected so many times anyone trying to trace it would be left convinced that the recipient lived either in Antarctica or a New York sandwich shop. Question felt his pulse quickening now, his guest completely forgotten, and started to read.

_Vic,_

_ I hope this message finds you well. To be quite honest, I hope it finds you at all. You wouldn't believe the trouble I had bewitching my old Quidditch gloves to manipulate a computer. I used an old typewriter to test them, you know, but it was rather touch and go for a bit. Then there was the matter of convincing my solicitor to take them to one of those Siberian Cafes you taught me about in the event this letter needed be sent. Luckily, she's a lot more adept with Muggle electronics than I._

_ But I digress. Can you blame me, really? Writing this is most unnerving, to say the least. I'm sure reading it is doubly so, so I shall assuage what is likely the worst of your fears posthaste--Luna is fine. At least, in the physical sense. I, on the other hand, well, it would seem I have joined Selene beyond the Veil--please, don't be too envious, my friend. I assure you I was in no hurry to go. I cannot begin to guess the circumstances of my passing--I was never gifted with foresight--so I shall leave it to you to find out. I can only hope you won't need your marvelous mystery solving skills._

_ I suppose I should set something straight, before I continue. When you revealed yourself to me on that chilly October day during Luna's first year at Hogwarts, I'll admit I was angry. The idea that you were dead hurt Selene greatly, and I couldn't for the life of me imagine why you would conduct such a dark hoax. It was my first instinct to curse you clear across the village, which you no doubt realized, as impressive as your powers of observation are. Now, as I write this, I am most pleased you managed to assuage my temper long enough for me to listen. I cannot imagine, even now, what it must have been like for you, to decide after you found them again that they would be better off without you. I still find your dour logic impeccable, but I must confess, in your position, I'm not sure I could have brought myself to do the same._

_ But that is neither here nor there, is it? I did not write this to rehash the past. I'm sure the two of us do that enough on our own time._

_ I would tell you it has been my greatest honour and privilege to raise Luna as though she were my own, but that would be a lie. As far as I was concerned before I met you, and even after, she _is_ my child, and always will be. But she is yours as well, Vic, though you have denied your claim in what you considered her best interest._

_ If you're reading this, I think it fair to say the circumstances have changed, and I am invoking the final clause of our gentlemen's agreement. She has no one else in the world, now. I know you had meant to stay out of it all, to let her grow up in our society, "where she was meant to be," to use your words. And she has. In a few short years, she will be an adult. You no longer need worry about tearing her between two worlds. But she still needs a parent who loves her, and she always will. And there's never been any doubt in my mind that you do. That's why you left the both of them with me, after all, not out of spite but because you thought it was for the best._

_ She needs you now, Vic, and I suspect you've always needed her, though you've done your best to pretend otherwise. I would imagine the shock of meeting you would pale in comparison to her reaction to my death, so don't let that lead you to hesitate. I would tell you to take care of her, to guard her and protect her with everything you have, but I know you'll do that regardless. I would caution you that she is a free spirit, that she's been raised to believe where others would bow to convention, but I doubt very much that aspect of her personality would conflict much with your own._

_As I sit here, I try to imagine how she might react to meeting you. To learning the truth. To learning her biological father is in fact a member of the Muggle Justice League--something else most of her peers don't believe in. I sit here, and I realize I have no clue. She's always been so hard to read, especially since her mother died. I'm sure my death won't do anything to improve the situation._

_The two of you have much to learn about each other, much to work through, and you will. But you clearly love her, as I said before, and in time she will realize that. Really, very little else matters. If I were to give you advice, I'd suggest only patience. Especially with yourself--this will be a rather different challenge for you, but I have no doubt you will rise smashingly to the occasion. If I thought otherwise, I wouldn't leave Luna in your care. If I could ask one other thing of you, it would be this: I would hope you would tell her of your life's work sooner rather than later. She is almost disturbingly good at knowing when secrets are being kept from her, as I've told you before, and, well, I'd like her to be prepared if you should ever put on that featureless mask of yours and not survive to remove it._

_Well, I'm looking back over all this, and to be quite honest, I can't believe it took me three hours to write. But as I said earlier, this is a difficult endeavor. There is much more for you to know, things it was either impossible or impractical to include in this final epistle. You will find, below, the telephone number of my solicitor. She will no doubt by now be expecting your call. Godspeed, my friend. As always in our friendship, the honour remains mine._

_In Conviction and Faith,_

_William Henry Lovegood_

Question stared blankly at the words. He felt like the world had suddenly sprinted away from him, and it was all his mind could do to limp to catch up. It wasn't until he saw Batman's reflection in the monitor, his opaque lenses wide with shock, that he felt control crash back into him--along with a painful tightness that gripped his chest and an unpleasant moisture in his eyes. This wasn't supposed to happen. William wasn't supposed to die. Luna wasn't supposed to be alone ... never alone ... but they'd prepared for this. It was Vic's time now. He had to act, he had to--

Batman swept back as Question's chair went crashing to the floor, the faceless sleuth having bolted to his feet and started moving about the room. There was much to be done. He had to pack and call the solicitor. He needed to book a plane ticket from _somewhere_ to London. It wouldn't do to just show up there without a paper trail. Huntress--Helena--had to be told what was going on. _How am I supposed to explain all this? And when? I can't very well pull her off the stakeout in Bludhaven._ And where was he supposed to take Luna to live? His apartment in Hub City was in a terrible neighborhood--only slightly safer than a crack house surrounded by a live minefield, as far as he was concerned. Was she supposed to live on the Watchtower? The same space station Cadmus had done their best to destroy three weeks ago, along with all hands? Would she even _want_ to live with him?_ She's just as likely to despise me_, he thought suddenly, _what am I going to do?_

He felt a presence in front of him an instant before Batman appeared, grabbing him by the shoulders. He came to a stop, realizing he'd done little more than trot a wide circle around the room. The cowled vigilante's mouth was pulled down in a tight frown, but he couldn't read any anger or ill will. "Question," he said finally, all the gravel gone from his deep voice, "are you alright?"

Vic shook himself free and nodded slowly, focusing only on the man in front of him. "My 'personal stake in the matter,'" he murmured finally, "though I'm sure you already figured it out." He was suddenly glad the other detective had decided to stick around.

"So I gathered," the caped vigilante said softly, staring out the window at the earth below. "What now?" His voice had lost some of its authority, and in the back of his mind, Vic realized what was going on. Batman was forcing him to make some sort of decision sooner rather than later, to spark that rational part of his brain that had so easily figured out and accepted that werewolves were committing murder-kidnappings across the United Kingdom back into action.

William had faith in him. Luna--his beautiful, forbidden little girl that wasn't so forbidden anymore--needed him.

_She has no one else in the world, now._ Vic heard William's measured voice in his head. _You love her ... really, very little else matters._

_She has me._ It wouldn't be easy. Probably not even particularly pleasant at first. The likelihood of their relationship now ever approaching the traditional father/daughter dynamic he once imagined was practically nil. The life he had built so carefully for himself would change forever. But she needed him, and that was all that mattered.

"Now," he looked at Batman, the beginnings of plan already taking shape, "I have a lot of work to do. I'm afraid Jack's case will have to wait--not long, as I'm more anxious to get to the bottom of things now than ever, but I doubt my skills are at their best at the moment. I need your help once more."

"Anything," he paused, and when he spoke again a little of the gravel was back, "within reason."

"When Helena returns from her mission, if you could tell her I had to leave on some emergency business of some sort, I would be most grateful. I don't want to tell her about all this until I know more about what's going on. I ... I also need time to think about how to approach her." He frowned under the mask. "We've never discussed my past."

"I won't lie for you," Batman said evenly, "but I think I can conceal the truth for a bit. I'll tell her you're working a case in England--like you said, you'll get to it eventually. If you need anything else, you know how to contact me," he said, the growl fully restored. He paused for a brief moment before stepping through the door. "Good luck, Vic." The unspoken sentiment hung in the air: You're going to need it.

Strangely, he didn't mind being called by his real name this time. Once Batman was gone, he went back to his terminal and scrolled to the very bottom of the message. He needed to make a call.


	2. Return to Neverland

A/N: See previous chapter for full notes. I'd like to thank everybody for the feedback I've already gotten…I was actually rather surprised this went over so well. Given some of the reactions in the reviews I've received so far, I think I should note, I already consider Harry/Ginny a thing of the past as of the end of the book. All feedback is appreciated. Enjoy.

Vic Sage, no longer in the garb of The Question, stood next to the bedroom window in his Hub City loft and stared out into the night, distractedly adjusting the towel around his waist. It wouldn't do to flash that diabetic old woman in the apartment across the street. It wasn't such a big deal if she called the police—he figured they wouldn't bother with her after the "sounds of domestic violence" she called in last week turned out to be a couple celebrating the husband's promotion by channeling their inner Caligulas. Though now that he thought about it, he doubted very much even the decadent Roman emperor would've wasted food in such a way, being an obsessive neat freak, so maybe another comparison was in order.

No, with his luck the old woman would go into shock and end up in the hospital, and when she came around she'd incoherently mutter something to the nurses about "that reporter fellow across the street" and how "he flashed me" before passing out again and he'd be in a whole other sort of mess that he really _didn't_ have time for right now.

He shook his head and studied his reflection in the glass, watching his damp, now orange-red bangs sway languidly over his milky blue eyes. Sometime since he got the letter eight hours ago, they'd gone bloodshot, and he thought that odd. Sure, they were feeling irritated, but he honestly couldn't remember crying. Then again, he had to admit everything since he finished reading William's carefully worded farewell seemed like a blur, not so much like a dream but like someone had pried him from his own body and hoisted in the air, and everything and everyone was suddenly moving just as quick as The Flash. But he didn't mind; if he tried to slow down and concentrate on what was going on around him and the implications of it all, that tight, painful feeling slammed back into his chest and he couldn't get anything done.

A distant pair of cracks reverberated faintly in the air, thunderclaps on a clear night. Vic frowned and sipped at the glass of iced black tea on his desk. _Too close together to be a car backfiring. Gun shots. West of here, maybe as far as five miles. Alleys are a damn echo chamber. Sawyer Street?_ It was certainly late enough for the pimps and dealers to be working the corners, and the violence had steadily escalated over the last week—it looked like his snitch with the Italians had been right. _Mogilevich's people _are _moving in on Varetti's operations. Gang war starring the Red Mafiya. Step one: "renegotiate" the local streetwalkers' employment._ He put the glass down and cracked his knuckles. _Great._ Even if they _weren't_ just slightly less corrupt than LexCorp's Board of Directors, the Hub City police department was not ready to handle this on their own—if he was right, half the senior command staff was probably on the take from one side or the other. He'd taken it as far as he could as Vic Sage, investigative reporter. It was time for the far less inhibited Question to step in—he had planned to begin his work tonight, but that was before he knew William was dead. Before everything changed.

He took another sip of tea, not finding it as soothing as he hoped. He knew, with his brain as addled as it was, if he tried to go after people as dangerous as the Russian mob—hell, if he tried to go after a mildly incensed mugger—he'd end up supine in a freezer wearing a toe tag by sunrise.

And now, more than ever, death was completely unacceptable.

So here he was, standing in nothing but a towel, dripping water all over his hardwood floor, sipping tea and listening to a gang war percolate outside. And for perhaps the first time since he'd vowed to end corruption in his town, he couldn't say for certain when he'd be stepping in to stop the violence. For now, he had personal matters to attend to. It was time to turn his energies towards the one person in the world who needed him the most, and if that meant neglecting a city full of people who thought he was a dangerous maniac for a little while, that was fine. At any rate, his mind had already crossed the Atlantic; the sooner his body followed, the better.

He rubbed his eyes again and stared bemusedly at explosion of belongings surrounding him. Normally, he despised messes, but no one would have known from looking around his apartment. His bedroom was the worst—all his clothes had somehow burst out of the closets and drawers, and he was having rather unpleasant flashbacks to his college days. _Probably making me pack faster._

After Batman left, the vigilante put in a call to William's solicitor. It was early evening in London, and when she answered Vic realized the number he'd been given belonged to a cell phone: she was in a pub, if the background noise was any indication. Once she'd realized who he was, things had gotten much quieter—he assumed she'd stepped outside. Neither had said much. Her insistence that they deal with "the matter at hand" face to face had been a barely-veiled way of postponing what was sure to be an unpleasant discussion.

As soon as he'd hung up, he set about getting ready. The biggest issue was establishing a believable paper trail. Actually flying there from Hub City was out. He had to pack and take care of several important errands first. He wouldn't be able to leave until early tomorrow morning, which meant he would arrive very, very late the next day. He couldn't wait that long. Even though he had no idea what he was going to do, he had to at least see that she was alright, and find out exactly what happened to William.

It only took seven and a half hours to fly to London, and he got the message early enough that his quick arrival there would seem normal to anyone who decided to snoop. Hacking into a major travel agency's systems and making it look like he had purchased a ticket would've been no problem, he could have even made it look like he boarded and disembarked from the plane, but that sort of manipulation took hours he didn't have. In the end, he decided to go with the far simpler route and called up an old friend with a high-class charter jet firm. He was assured that the company's records would show that Vic Sage had taken a flight from Metropolis to a private airfield not far from London. As far as his managing editor at the station was concerned, he was taking a well-deserved vacation.

He knew from experience that it would only take about three days for the local criminal element to realize he had vacated his apartment—he fully expected at least one break-in attempt—so he'd packed up the very few material possessions he considered irreplaceable, including the trinkets belonging to his mother he'd managed not to have stolen during his time at St. Mary's—a hellhole of an orphanage—and tried to ignore the usual depressive pangs when it occurred to him all of it together wouldn't even fill a shoebox. _Not like my memories of her amount to much either._ The rest of his possessions could sprout legs and walk off tomorrow, and he wouldn't really care.

Well, except for the photo of Helena she gave him to "liven up" his nightstand. He was rather attached to that. _But what Huntress doesn't know she can't tease me about._

Vic downed the rapidly cooling tea and moved to his desk, fiddling with the locks on the overlarge leather briefcase—it was easily wide enough to hold a tuba—resting on the dark red-brown workspace. He thought of its contents: a laptop, yellow pad, mix CD with N'Sync's latest and some German group (he had to hide it somewhere), files relating to Vic Sage's investigation of possible graft in the local Housing and Urban Development office, and behind a pair of fake backs, the paraphernalia of The Question. Vic Sage was going because his daughter needed him, but as long with killer werewolves running around committing murder-kidnappings, she wouldn't be safe. He thought of his earlier words to Batman and realized he couldn't just suspend his vigilante endeavors until he and Luna adjusted to each other—he knew it could be months, if not _years_ in the worse case, before the she was even remotely comfortable with him. In the meantime, he had to reestablish some sense of control over his emotions: he had a responsibility to the missing and the dead to find the truth.

And, he had realized with a painful jolt when folding a pair of slacks, Luna could very well be the next target.

Shaking his head sharply, he silently cursed himself; he wasn't used to this. The dizzying effect Helena had on him was pleasantly exciting, but right now he just felt disoriented and almost nauseous—if he didn't know better he would've assumed he'd been drugged.

He hated that feeling. Helplessness, confusion, powerlessness, those were all things he left behind years ago. Or tried to, at least.

Pushing the briefcase aside, he brushed his fingers over the smooth surface of the polished heavy-gauge steel humidor he'd retrieved from his lock box at Hub City First National a few hours ago. He'd gotten some weird looks, and he guessed at least one of the vault attendants thought he was storing Cubans. _Not likely,_ he thought, feeling a flash of disgust as he suddenly recalled a nearly twenty-five year old memory of a dark, seventies-era hospital room with acid green paint, the only sound coming from an ancient breathing machine…

_Damn it!_ He hadn't had this much trouble controlling his imagination since he was twelve. No, the humidor definitely wasn't for _those_. But it was one of the fancier models, airtight with a vacuum pump that kept out any decomposing agents, perfect for preserving a few treasures he'd never felt comfortable leaving out in the open. They were too valuable, and their existence would've been too difficult to explain to anyone that happened to stumble on them by accident. On the downside, he didn't get to look at them as often as he'd have liked.

_Everything's ready to go. Midnight. Still three hours before I need to leave. Mind's not good for much else right now … wouldn't hurt to look._ A small smile flitted across his lips as he pressed a thumb to a small plastic square on the front of the box—a little custom work on his part. An instant later he heard a click as the biometric locking mechanism disengaged. Lifting the lid, he peered inside.

Everything was as he'd left it. A plain leather photo album tucked neatly between two thick stacks of folded parchment, each piece addressed and dated in William Lovegood's tiny, impeccable script. He reached for the picture album, but stopped short as a bead of moisture dripped from his hair onto his nose. He suddenly remembered that, excepting a rather flimsy towel, he was completely naked. Vic sighed. _Maybe I should get dressed first._ He stood up with a grumble and started looking for his pants.

* * *

Vic Sage materialized in a London alleyway that ran into to Charing Cross Road and immediately grimaced, shutting his eyes against the bright early morning sun and fumbling blindly in his tan trench coat for a pair of shades. "Well," he muttered, smashing a pair of Oakley sunglasses down on his nose and pulling his brown fedora down, "looks like I'm off to an auspicious start." He smoothed the wrinkles out of his off white suit jacket and brought his watch up, pressing a button on the side and watching as the aviator-style timepiece reset itself to Greenwich Mean Time. _7:45. Better get moving._ Hefting a leather duffel on either shoulder and lifting his briefcase off the ground, he took a deep breath and schooled his features into an expression that hopefully screamed "harried, traveling businessman." With any luck, the locals would dismiss him as another self-important American. No one should pay attention to the bags, either; he wasn't that far from an Underground station and there was a Holliday Inn Express several blocks down the street.

As soon as he stepped out of the alley, a surprisingly chill breeze slammed him in the face, and he felt goosebumps sprout across his shoulders. He hadn't noticed it at first—his overcoat was quite thick—but it was far too cold out for July, even standing in the sun. A strange dark grey, almost black, fog drifted up from several sewer grates. _Weather Channel wasn't kidding._ Normally, even he wasn't paranoid enough to consider strange fog and unseasonable cold a sign of criminal activity—unless the Weather Wizard had escaped again—but where _real_ magic was concerned, ruling _anything_ out would be foolish. And real magic was obviously spilling more and more into Muggle England._ Curiouser and curiouser._

He moved swiftly down the street until he found the old, rackety looking inn nestled between a pair of shops, just where he expected it to be. He watched a middle-aged woman come out and step into the flow of traffic, noting how the few the people around her acted like she just appeared out of thin air. _They can't see it._ _Guess I'm still in the club._

A bell rang faintly as he entered. The modestly appointed bar looked empty, and his footfalls echoed dully off the wooden floor. _Fifteen years, and it's just the same_. _Paint on the walls a little faded, maybe._ At least it was empty. Bars filled with patrons early before noon were depressing.

With a loud pop, a short man appeared behind the bar. His eyes were wide and his cheeks a little red. Vic raised an eyebrow, feeling slightly embarrassed. The door _was_ open. The man was much as he remembered him, though with substantially less hair. _And teeth. He used to have more teeth._

The innkeeper recovered after a few seconds, and smiled pleasantly at Vic. "Morning, young man!" Vic didn't miss the wand the man held at his side. "I must apologize … I'm afraid you caught me in the loo. Got a little clumsy with the orange marmalade when I was seeing to Mrs. Hopkins, it stains if you don't get it out quickly, you know. Those are some hefty bags you've got there. Will you be staying with us, then?" He paused, as if noticing Vic for the first time. The vigilante smiled. Now that he was in the Leaky Cauldron, his appearance would scream—"Say," Tom arched an eyebrow, "you wouldn't be a Muggle, would you?"

"I would," Vic said, keeping his smile warm. If Tom's mind was still as sharp as it used to be, it wouldn't be long before his excellent memory kicked in, and then things would likely get a bit unpleasant. "The door was unlocked," he said mildly, "I assumed you were open for business."

"Oh," Tom blinked, still looking surprised, "of course. You'll forgive my prying, I hope. Most Muggles can't see the door, let alone walk through it." He regarded Vic curiously, his hand hanging casually on the pocket where he'd stuck his wand. Vic wasn't fooled for a second. The muscles in Tom's forearm were poised for action. "Please, sit down."

_Bit more suspicious than I remember. Interesting._ He moved to one of the barstools, dropping his bags and putting his briefcase next to his feet. "A … few … members of my family are of the magical persuasion. I suppose you could say I'm in the know when it comes to the basics." He suddenly decided it would save the both of them a lot of awkward moments and wasted time if he jogged the innkeeper's memory a bit. "I'm not surprised you don't remember me. It's been a long time since I've been here. Almost feels like another life."

This got the barkeep's attention, interest lighting his features. "Come to think of it, I thought you seemed familiar." He studied Vic intensely for a long moment, then his eyes widened. "Ch-Charles Szasz? Is that you, boy?"

_Still sharp, aren't you?_ Vic couldn't suppress a smirk at the shock on the man's face. "Hello, Tom. Most people call me Vic now," he said calmly, "Vic Sage."

"B-but," Tom ground out, "you disappeared. You were dating that lovely girl from Middlesex—Selene Sharpe—and you'd gone back to America on business and you just … vanished. Everyone thought you had died—"

"I did," Vic said with quiet force, and Tom immediately shut up, looking somehow more stunned than before. Vic had been expecting something like this when he resolved to come here, but decided it was a necessary inconvenience. The old innkeeper was a trusted member of the local magical community; if he could get back in his good graces, things would be much easier. "Or at least I might as well have. I was in an accident," he lied smoothly. "Got my head banged up pretty good. When I woke up I couldn't remember a damn thing, not even my name," he said, not bothering to curtail the bitter regret in his voice. "By the time I got my mind straightened out … Selene had moved on. I had no intention of destroying the life she made for herself," he finished, his voice taking on a faintly hard edge. "It was better for all of them if I bowed out."

Tom frowned for a long moment, and Vic knew he was deciding if he should believe the story. "But not for you," Tom said finally in a low, serious voice. "You always seemed to have a bit of an unfortunate selfless streak." His eyes betrayed an interesting mixture of awe, surprise, confusion, restrained curiosity, and something that might have been pity. Vic found himself studying the various flutes and bottles arrayed behind the squat old man.

"It was for the best," Vic said shortly. "Like you said, she thought I'd died."

Tom frowned for a moment, but then his face fell into a obviously-practiced smile. "So, what brings you back?" he asked casually, as if conversing with someone who was supposed to be dead was something he did every few days.

_Disaster._ "Something's come to my attention that I need," his voice caught, but he forced it back under control "to take care of. It's … personal."

"I'm sure," Tom frowned slightly. "Look, I'm not going to stick my nose where it doesn't belong, Char—Vic, but surely you realize a Muggle wondering around will attract attention. Your clothes are a bit of a giveaway. And I daresay, you were never supposed to know as much as you found out. If anyone reports you, your memory of all of this will be Obliviated."

Vic felt a flash of anger now. Not at Tom—he meant well—but he'd allowed himself to forget how draconian this place could be. No, Wizards weren't allowed to reveal themselves to Muggles under any circumstances, not even when they were dating. It had to wait until marriage. There were other exceptions, but none really applied to him … until now. He and Selene never made it that far, but she'd never had much patience for her society's "backwards tenancies," as she called them. Flouting the law had only made their relationship more interesting. _Control, Vic. You don't have time for this._ "I can assure you, that won't be a problem after another few hours. I'd say more, but I don't really have a complete handle on things yet, and I figure everything will come to light soon enough." According to William's solicitor, after his paternal status was confirmed, he'd have the status of Protected Muggle, whatever the hell that meant. At the very least, no one would be able to tamper with his memory.

_Meanwhile William's death will be splashed all over that _Prophet_ rag—if it's not already._ That paper was the worst excuse for journalism he'd ever seen—sensational, full of gossip and all but run by the government. Tom looked confused, but didn't say anything. "In the meantime, I need a room, if you have one. I'm not sure for how long yet." His voice softened. "I won't cause you any trouble. I would ask that you be discreet about my presence for the next six hours or so. I can't afford to have my memory wiped at this point."

"You always were an odd duck," Tom grumbled. "Don't delude yourself into thinking you've put anything over on me, young man. Your story has holes in it big enough to ride a Ukrainian Ironbelly through, and if it were anyone else, I'd have already called the Department of Magical Law Enforcement." He sighed gruffly. "I'll be wanting a proper explanation before the night's out. You owe me that much."

_I owe you a lot more than that._ "And you'll get one," Vic nodded. "I'll be able to explain my situation much better after I've gotten a handle on things."

"If you say so," Tom shrugged, seeming to force down his annoyance. "You've picked a bad time to show back up, though. Dark forces are afoot; tread lightly." He shook his head. "So, you're needing a room?" Vic nodded, silently mulling over Tom's oblique warning. "Single, I suppose?"

Vic had no intentions of whisking Luna off to he Leaky Cauldron—it would've been stupid to make any sort of plan without knowing exactly what her situation was—so he nodded. "That would be excellent."

"Well then," Tom fished under the bar and pulled out a large leather book and an ink bottle with a quill sticking out the top, "if you could sign the guest registry, please," he said quickly, the air of astonishment still not gone from his voice. "I'll help you with your bags."

Vic shook his head as he signed his name into the book, watching interestedly as the room number and length of stay filled themselves in (_21_ and _Indefinite_). _Twenty-one? That was the room she and I … you really do have a good memory, old man._ "No thanks, Tom. I'm putting you through enough trouble already."

Tom laughed, and this time he sounded honestly amused. "Back from the dead, and still such a _Muggle_." With a flick of his wand, the duffels lifted into the air and disappeared with a pop. "You'll find them waiting on your bed … Mr. Sage. Interesting choice, that." He shook his head again, and unless Vic was very much mistaken tossed a longing look at a bottle of some electric blue liquor. "Will you be needing anything else?"

"If you have extra copies of the last few issues of _The_ _Daily Prophet_, I'd love to borrow them for a bit. Oh," he added as he stood, grabbing his briefcase and trying to sound casual, "a solicitor by the name of Sarah Thomas is supposed to meet me here in about fifteen minutes. If you could point her towards my room, I'd appreciate it."

Tom blinked at him. "Consider it done. _Charles_," Vic stopped on the third step of stairwell, abruptly realizing he was going to have a _very_ hard time convincing Tom to use his new name—you only had so much sway over a man who hid you routinely in his wine cellar when you were twenty, "do I even _want_ to know what you're up to?"

"I doubt it," Vic frowned. "But you'd find out eventually, and I'd prefer you hear it from me. There's no telling what those morons at the _Prophet_ will come up with. We'll talk later." Without another word, he raced up the stairs, leaving the old innkeeper looking more confused than ever.

* * *

The room was bigger than he expected, easily twice the size of his bedroom, and in far better shape than the bar. Upon entering, he'd blinked several times before he remembered magic could be used to make large rooms fit in small places, convinced something was wrong with his sense of depth perception—he'd once shared a four-foot square tent with Selene that was over 500 square feet on the inside. He found his suitcases lying on the bed. The comforter and sheets, like everything else in the room, were done up in lively shades of blue and gold. It occurred to Vic it looked like a casino hotel room.

Laying the briefcase on the desk by the window and hanging his coat on the door, Vic immediately set about unpacking his clothes. He had just finished putting away the last of them when he heard a firm knocking coming from his door. _This is it_, he thought dourly. He moved forward swiftly and threw the lock, easing the door open with carelessness that belied his frayed nerves. "Good morning, Ms. Thomas." he said, trying to sound friendly. "Please, come in."

The woman was much younger than she'd sounded on the phone, probably no older than twenty-six, neither thin nor overly fat, and he judged her to be just a little over five feet tall. She had short black hair tied back in a small pony-tail, and the large bangs hanging over her eyes made her look even younger. An expensive looking satchel made of what he thought was snakeskin hung over her shoulder. Dark circles under her puffy blue eyes were all that marred her appearance. "Mr. Sage, I presume?" she asked in a professional tone, stepping over the threshold.

"Yes," he returned smoothly, some of the warmth receding from his voice. It seemed she didn't want to play it that way. "Please, make yourself comfortable. Thank you for agreeing to meet me so early." He sat at the desk, feeling suddenly more solid than he had since he'd heard the news of William's death. He was finally in a position to find out what had happened and _do_ something.

She smiled tiredly as she eased herself into a chair by the window, revealing a set of perfect teeth. As she spoke, her voice softened slightly. "I should be thanking you. I didn't expect you'd be able to meet so soon. This," her voice shook slightly, "has all been so sudden. I've only been Will's solicitor for about a year, you know. I was just getting the hang of handling his affairs. A complicated bit of business to get hit with so soon after getting my license."

Vic's eyebrows shot up. "Excuse me?" His voice was a little harsher than he intended, but all sorts of alarm bells were going off in his head. As far as he knew, William had apprised his solicitor of Vic's existence and relationship to Luna when the two of them had made their … arrangement. He'd never bothered to learn the lawyer's name, or even whether or not it was a man or a woman—it never seemed important. _But that was _years_ ago. Why would this woman have just found out, unless…_ Either the casefile had been handed off very recently or for some reason William had never felt the need to mention, or—his eyes washed over the woman, finding the tip of what looked to be a thin, willowy wand tucked into a leather sheath hanging from her belt. He guessed it would take her maybe a second to draw it if her hands were folded in her lap, another to utter any kind of spell if she spoke fast enough, maybe less if she used nonverbal magic. If this was some sort of ruse and she intended to attack him, he'd have just over two seconds to disarm her…

Vic knew most people considered him paranoid. And he didn't really disagree. But unlike most people, he considered a healthy dose of paranoia a healthy trait—those who refused to contemplate the possibilities of evil in their world were always caught unaware when the walls fell, the first to fall when the wicked struck. But he also admitted that sometimes it just made him overly jumpy, and he wasn't really at his most rational right now anyway, so he decided to give the woman the benefit of the d0ubt, as long as her explanation held up. _Still…_ He rested a hand casually on the table edge, waiting to turn it over on her at the slightest provocation. He never let himself lose sight of the wand, deciding a swift, low snap-kick would be the best way to shatter it once she was on the floor, if it came to that…

Miss Thomas, totally oblivious to the machinations of the man lounging deliberately casually across from her, seemed to take his outburst as nothing more than confusion and too much stress. "Oh, yes," she said abashedly, "I should explain, I suppose. My grandfather has always handled Mr. Lovegood's account, and by the time I started with his firm—this was about three months ago, you see—well, he's getting up in years, you know, just hit 120 last month," she didn't seem to notice Vic's eyebrows shooting up, "can't really push himself as hard as he used to. A few weeks ago, he decided I should take over—said Mr. Lovegood deserved someone with more stamina," she blushed lightly. "Honestly? I think I'm being groomed to replace him. Wish he'd be more direct about it, though … wouldn't be surprised if he retires before the New Year."

Vic let himself relax a little. If she _was_ trying to hide something from him, she'd have forgone babbling nervously, and done her best to appear confident. There was such a thing as staged nerves, but that wasn't what he was seeing here. Still, he kept his hand on the desk. "I see," he said mildly. "You delivered the message?" She nodded, again serious. "Then you've been fully appraised of the situation with Luna? My relationship with her mother, our separation, and so forth?" Again she nodded, what might have been pity flashing in her eyes. He allowed himself a small smirk. "Good." The fewer people he had to explain himself to, the better.

"Your situation might not be unique," she frowned slightly, "but it is certainly very rare. I must say I was rather shocked when I heard the details." Her eyes took on a gentle look. "It must've been very difficult for you." She looked like she wanted to say more, but had the sense not to dredge up his past.

_You have no idea,_ he thought bitterly, but his only outward response was slow nod.

"I'm sure you have many questions, and there's a lot you need to know, not just about what happened to William but Wizarding society as well. I daresay you'll have to integrate yourself for Luna's sake. Poor dear. I haven't been able to see her yet, but from what I hear she isn't taking it very well." She stopped suddenly, seeing the glare that burnt its way across his features. She sucked in a breath. "Ahem. Before we can go any further," she pulled her satchel into her lap and released the clasps, "I'll need to perform a paternity test. I'm sure you're who you say you are, but this is a formality we must entertain."

Vic tensed. He'd expected this; he knew he'd have to verify his identity somehow before they'd let him see her. Honestly, he was glad they were being careful. The problem was _time_—in his experience these sorts of things took far too long. And never mind seeing her. Miss Thomas didn't intend to tell him anything else until the results were confirmed. "I expected as much," he said, not bothering to completely mask his annoyance. "I assume you've got the testing supplies here. How long will it take to confirm the results? I'm prepared to meet again at your earliest convenience."

She blinked at him, looking momentarily confused. Then something seemed to click, and she smiled at him, almost looking bemused. "_Oh._ You must be thinking of the way the Muggles do it. So crude." Her smile brightened. "I assure you," she continued, pulling out a stoppered, ornate crystal beaker containing a white liquid and setting it between them, "our way is much more efficient. We'll have the results in a few minutes."

A wave of relief rushed over him. He wasn't looking forward to sitting on his ass in a Ravenclaw themed hotel room that did nothing but call painful memories to his mind's eye for the next couple days waiting for results. He looked curiously at the milky substance, wondering what would happen next and feeling a familiar curiosity inject itself into the tangled mix of emotions warring for control of his mind. This place really was like another world. "Am I supposed to drink it?"

She giggled, looking a little embarrassed. "Oh, heavens no! I don't think it would hurt you, but you might turn hot pink for a week." He blinked at her. Apparently the overly serious demeanor she'd entered with was hard to maintain. She cleared her throat. "I'm sorry," she said sincerely, "I'm not used to dealing with Muggles who haven't already been exposed to this sort of thing. It must be very confusing for you. Here, watch. It's a bit like a Muggle pregnancy test, you see." She fished a small leather pouch out of her satchel and drew a knotted up bit of dirty blonde hair that Vic almost immediately recognized as Luna's, unstopping the beaker and dropping it in. It dissolved with a fizzing sound and a considerable bit of smoke, and roughly half the liquid turned a brilliant shade of blue.

Vic understood immediately. His hair sample would cause the rest of the potion to take on the same blue shade, most likely. _Amazing._ He'd always thought magic had a certain sort of elegance. "How much hair do you need?"

"Oh," she grinned, "not much at all. Just a small lock," she started reaching for her wand. "Allow me." But Vic had beaten her to it, his hand disappearing into his trenchcoat and returning with a complicated looking multitool. He pulled on one of the many small pieces of metal, and the solicitor watched in fascination as a small pair of scissors popped out. He cut a small, hopefully unnoticeable tuft of hair from the nape of his neck and passed it to her. Maybe she wasn't evil, but he didn't really want her pointing anything at him.

Ms. Thomas looked curiously at the pocketknife for a moment, then smiled and dropped the red hair into the liquid. It sparked slightly this time, and Vic heard the same fizzing noise, and within a few seconds the whole of the milky substance had turned the same shade of blue. He smiled. "I take it that's a positive result?"

"Yes, indeed," she chirped, "if you hadn't been who you claimed you were, the whole thing would've evaporated. Now, then," and she suddenly sounded much friendlier, "there's just one more bit to attend to." She drew out a parchment and spread it between them. "You'll need to sign these."

Vic leaned forward to get a better look. At the top, in what he honestly considered overly ostentatious handwriting, were the words _Change of Guardianship_. It read a lot like adoption papers—he was certainly familiar with those—and his name was already written in several spots, but he found nothing that gave him pause. It was surprisingly vague, taking several paragraphs to insist only that he protect and care for Luna to the best the of his ability, and laying out the rights and protections he had as a Muggle parent of a "Magical Youth." Most of it was already filled out. William's solicitor had yet to sign her space at the bottom, and it needed to be dated in several spots. But there was no space for his signature. Before he could ask her what he was supposed to do with it she withdrew a glass dropper from her bag and sucked up a bit of the blue liquid, squirting it over the bottom of the document. The paper glowed for a moment, and several words formed underneath a blank line that hadn't been there before.

Vic Sage _Relationship to Child: Biological Father_ _Identity Confirmed by Eileen Thomas, Private Solicitor_ _Custody Assumed: July 10, 2005_

Vic said nothing, merely reaching inside his suit coat and retrieving a ballpoint. He was just about to sign when Eileen cleared her throat. "Mr. Sage—may I call you Vic? You should know, by signing this paper, you're entering into a binding magical contract. If you should take any actions that violate the terms, the penalties will be … severe."

Vic frowned sharply, suddenly remembering when Selene had told him of Azkaban and the horrible creatures that guarded it. _Penalties, indeed._ The ballpoint's tip made a slight grinding noise as he swung it across the paper, and he looked up at her as he returned it to his breast pocket. "I understand completely, Eileen." _If I hurt Luna, I deserve whatever "severe" penalties you can cook up._ "Honestly, I thought these papers would be a bit more … stipulating … in their terms. There's not even anything in here about making sure she acclimates well to her new living arrangements. Equivalent Muggle contracts usually contain conditions regarding mandatory social services visits, counseling, financial stability…" _Does this society _even_ have social workers?_

She grinned. "You're her biological father. You're connected by blood. That counts for a very great deal in our world. Our government has no equivalent to the Department of Child and Family Services as you know it. We function on a trust system. Parents are trusted implicitly to do the right thing for their children, and the authorities only step in when there's an obvious problem."

Vic kept his face neutral. _Convenient for me, but all kinds of wrong. A system like that, no telling how many poor souls slip through the cracks…_ He forced his mind back to the matter at hand, watching her fold the contract up and return it to her satchel. "Now what?"

She tapped the beaker, muttering "_Evanesco!_" and the liquid disappeared. She tossed it in with the dropper and cracked her knuckles. "Once I'm back to the office I'll floo a copy of this over to the appropriate Ministry office. I've got a friend there who owes me a favor, so I should be able to expedite things. After about three hours or so, I'm guessing you'll be getting an owl with your Protected Muggle papers. There will be a small identification card with them—keep it with you at all times. It will be enchanted to protect you from any xenophobes who happen to be good at Memory Charms, and will identify you with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. You'll want to stay on their good side, of course." She cleared her throat. "Now, I've got about an hour before I need to leave. We'll be meeting again, but I'm sure you have questions you want answered now."

He nodded, sitting up and narrowing his eyes slightly. He'd been waiting for this—he'd honestly expected it to take longer to get through all the formalities. "William's letter said Luna was physically fine. That's true?"

"Of course," she said gently. "He wrote another version, to be sent had that not been the case, but that was of course unnecessary. She's staying with her neighbors right now. The Weasleys. Delightful family. The husband has a mid-level position with the Ministry."

Vic nodded. William had mentioned them every once in a while. Apparently the youngest—Ginny—was Luna's closest friend, and the family was well acquainted with her. He felt himself relax a little. At least she was with people who cared about her. That left one other question. He kept his voice neutral. "What happened to William?" he asked flatly.

The woman's face grew weary. "I supposed you had to ask sooner or later. I'm afraid … Mr. Lovegood was murdered."

_No, damn it!_ The breath caught in Vic's lungs, and he felt a chill creep up his spine. He'd considered the possibility, but all this time his mind had been doing its best to convince itself this was all the result of an accident or illness. Murder … murder changed everything. He thought of Luna, how William had always described her as kind and gentle, so terribly crushed when her mother died—this would be worse. A thousand times worse. This was no accident. Somewhere deep within him, anger sparked, and when he spoke again, it was with the eerie calm of a faceless vigilante from Hub City. "_Who?_"

The woman frowned sadly. "It will be difficult to explain, Mr. Sage. Wizarding Britain is at war with a great evil, one who seeks to remake our world to suit his own twisted vision. We had thought him destroyed, long ago, before your daughter was born. We were wrong. He is powerful and terrible … no one speaks his name."

Vic knew a bit more about the recent history of Wizarding Britain than he let on, and the little spark in his chest immediately expanded into a flaming pillar of fury. He hadn't been around for the first war, but he was there every night Selene woke up in a cold sweat, screaming about Death Eaters and crying for her murdered brothers. "_Voldemort._" The woman across from him paled, flinching as though he'd punched her in the face. _But he's supposed to be dead!_ Admittedly, he didn't know the details. It wasn't something they had wasted their time discussing. He folded his arms over his slightly quaking chest. Suddenly all those strange reports were making a lot more sense. He'd murdered William, and scarred Luna in the process. That would not stand. "Tell me_ everything._"

* * *

_Pop!_

Arthur Weasley came into existence behind a clump of trees on a hill overlooking The Burrow and vainly tried to force a scowl off his face. It was no good—the thing had been cemented there since he'd awoken two days ago just before sunrise to the sound of his daughter screaming about thick, black smoke coming from the direction of William Lovegood's house.

_Blimey. What a mess._

Once he'd roused his brain enough to actually attach meaning to her words, he was up like a shot, smashing his glasses down on his nose and pulling his wand out from under his pillow as he threw the worn, mahogany dress robes he'd worn the night before over his bedclothes. He felt more than heard Molly climb out of bed behind him fumbling with her wand and muttering, and knew she was checking the protective wards the Order had thrown up around their house. When she hadn't immediately screamed or started hurling curses out the window, he decided it was safe to turn his attention to Ginny, who was half asleep herself and babbling incoherently about Luna and busily trying to pull him towards the stairs. Or wrench his arm off. It was pointless, he knew, to try to conduct a conversation with any Weasley when they were on a tear _and_ semi-conscious, so he gently shook her off and sped past her down the stairs, hoping to find someone a little more coherent. At least he couldn't hear anything that sounded like spells being thrown around. That was encouraging.

The sight that greeted him was not.

The twins, even their bloodshot eyes matching—at least he wasn't the only one who'd had too much firewhiskey at the wedding—were standing on either end of the room, wands drawn, casting furtive glances through the windows and looking far too grim for his liking. Luna, her big silver eyes wild, sweat glistening on her brow, stood in her purple, radish covered nightdress in a corner of the room, staring at the door. She held her wand in a white knuckled grip, and blinked. Repeatedly.

Ron and Hermione stood on either side of her, faces pale, hands resting not so gently on her shoulders, wands out and eyes sharp. He realized abruptly that they were probably the only thing keeping her from bolting into the twilight. He'd stood there for a few seconds, an ever more pressing sense of dread welling up in him as everyone's eyes fixed on the staircase. But where was—

Harry's head slid into view in the middle of the room as he pulled his Invisibility Cloak's hood back, and Arthur nearly let his wand slip from his fingers. The boy's green eyes were positively _flashing_, and the older wizard couldn't tell if it fury, fear, or guilt swirling there—maybe some combination of the three. The rest of his face looked eerily calm; lips drawn into a thin line, brows relaxed, breath coming calmly if not quickly through his nose. He seemed to have aged five years in the space of a night, and Arthur had suddenly realized _this_ must've been the Harry that stormed the Department of Mysteries.

_Bugger._

Harry had merely nodded, and when he spoke, Arthur was taken aback at the firmness in his voice. "Ginny found you. Excellent. She should be helping Mrs. Weasley contact the Order now. Something's happened … over the hill. Not exactly sure what. Just a few minutes ago." Arthur opened his mouth to say something, Harry nodded quickly at Hermione, and with a flick of her wand she opened the window closest to George. The acrid stench of smoke wafted into the room, everyone's noses twitching as one. Arthur had nearly retched at the smell.

Harry had looked at Arthur then, and informed him in a clear, firm voice that now that he was there, they going to find out what was going on. A series of affirming noises rose around the room. Before the elder Weasley could say anything more than "Now wait just a minute," Harry beat him to the punch, reminding him it was too dangerous for him to go alone, even if he was an Order member, that waiting for the others could take far too much time, and effectively ending the discussion with a vehement, "I'm not going to stand by and lose anyone else if I can help it." Without waiting for a reply, he ordered Arthur's children and Hermione Granger to Disillusion themselves and moved across the room, still little more than a head, and stood in front of Luna. He could still recall their conversation and the words that followed.

"Luna, you really should stay here, you know."

She blinked at him, and when she spoke her voice was anything but dreamy. "Would you, Harry?"

They stood there staring at each other for several seconds, and then Harry sighed. "Alright." He looked in turn at Ron and Hermione. "Let her go, guys." In one swift motion, he'd removed his Invisibility Cloak and draped it over the Ravenclaw's slim shoulders, fixing the clasp in place. Luna looked at the floor for a moment, towards where her feet should've been, then back at Harry. "Whatever happens, stay close to me unless I tell you otherwise. Keep your wand at the ready, but don't use it unless you absolutely have to. If any of us tells you to run_, no matter what, _you break for the Burrow and don't look back. Got it_?"_ She had nodded so hard her hair slapped Ron in the face, and he pulled the hood of the cloak over her head as he moved to her side, taking a few of her fingers in his own so he would be able to keep track of her.

_"_Everybody else," he had said calmly, seemingly addressing everyone but Arthur, _"_just like we planned. Hermione, Ron: go left of the path, use the bigger trees, bushes, ditches, whatever you can as cover. Fred, George, you take the right. Luna, Mr. Weasley and I will go straight up the middle. If we run into anyone who isn't supposed to be there, they'll be so busy staring at The Boy Who Lived ambling towards them you lot in the brush will have one or two seconds to knock as many of them out as you can before they realize what's going on._"_

Ron frowned and Hermione clicked her tongue—obviously neither much cared for him using himself as a target. The twins didn't look happy, either, but looked more anxious to tear out the door than anything else. Tapping his wand lightly on his head, he moved to stand next to Mr. Weasley so that Luna was between them. Arthur hadn't dared take the girl's other hand. She was shaking like a badly bewitched tea service, and he doubted very much she would willingly lower her wand. _"_By then we'll all be in the fight, if there is one, but hopefully we'll have thinned them out_."_

Arthur had been listening intently to all of it, ready to step in when he found any flaws in Harry's plan. But he was right—it would've been foolish to go alone, and all the wizards and witches in the room were more than capable. Luna included, even if bringing her in her current state was questionable. But when Arthur thought about it, he realized what Harry must've been thinking, that the girl worshipped her father and was going no matter what. Trying to stop her would have only wasted time, and it was better for everybody if she was with people who could watch out for her. At least he was dealing with thoughtful, considerate—if not angry—Harry, and not the raging boy that they'd all had to suffer during his fifth year at Hogwarts.

And Harry had stood there with Luna between them, waiting for some sort of reaction from the older man. Even though he obviously wanted to jump in feet first, he was doing his very best to do things right. Arthur made his decision and nodded once, Disillusioning himself. Harry almost smiled then, and with a _"_Let's go. Now,_"_ the three of them, shoulder to shoulder, led the way out of the house.

Arthur paused at his garden and took a deep breath, catching sight of a smug looking gnome out of the corner of his eye. _God. What I wouldn't give to have found an army of Death Eaters instead of that … that … _ His brain struggled to find a euphemism for the horror they'd charged into, but in the end all he could manage was the cold truth. _That crater._ Left with nothing else to do, he knocked on the door.

He barely had time to blink before he heard Molly scurrying towards the door, but smiled thinly when she didn't try to throw it open straight away. "Arthur! Is that you?"

Arthur shook his head, unable to keep a tiny smirk from crossing his features. "You _know_ that's not the question, dear."

"_Oh!_" she hissed through the door, "This is the most absurd—_fine._ What is your dearest ambition?"

He grinned. The whole procedure _was_ stupid. Even the most brainless fools at Ministry knew it—if a Death Eater came to kill you, they weren't going to knock. But it all fit with the Minister's strategy of doing everything he could to make it look like the Ministry was winning the war. Actually _fighting Voldemort_ was out of the question: the government was too corrupt, too riddled with spies and saboteurs. _Meanwhile innocent people like William are dying every day…_ He cleared his throat. "To find out how airplanes stay up. What do you like me to call you, when we're alone together?"

He could practically hear her blush. "Mollywobbles." The door swung open. His wife pulled him inside, and corralled him into one of the kitchen table's chairs in one smooth motion. Another instant, and she was sitting across from him, using her wand to summon a steaming bowl of last night's onion soup and a half-loaf of French bread across the room flanked by a pair of butterbeers.

It all skidded to a halt on his place setting and she smiled. "Two slices of toast with marmalade is not breakfast, dear. You won't get anything done if you faint from malnourishment." Another wave of the wand and a spoon was hovering in front of his face.

Arthur honestly didn't much like eating, but a sudden growl from his stomach convinced him he'd better give it a shot. Besides, he didn't want to upset Molly anymore than he had to. She might be smiling at him now, but her red, swollen eyes betrayed her. He plucked the spoon out of the air. "Where are the children?"

She sighed, gazing at the family clock that seemed to follow her everywhere now. Unsurprisingly, all the hands remained pointed unerringly towards "Mortal Peril." As far as he was concerned the thing was damned morbid and should be stashed in a closet until the war was over, but he wasn't about to mention it. The last time he tried they ended up in a _real_, blazing row and he'd almost been (quite literally) banished from their bedroom.

"Fred came by to take Ginny to the shop—some moron at the Ministry _accidentally_ disconnected them from the Floo. She wanted to try to find something to try to cheer Luna up. I don't think it'll do much good, and I'm pretty sure she doesn't either, but I think she just needed to feel like she was doing something. I got an owl from Bill—he says he might be on the verge of a breakthrough with the Goblins. I wish Fleur and I could've talked him into staying on holiday for a bit longer. He needs more time to heal."

Arthur snorted. "We're lucky he sat still as long as he did, dear. He was getting restless, and the Healers said bed rest wouldn't do him any more good. He wants to try to finish what he started." _Still, I think we're going to lose them this time around. Voldemort may be evil, but he's competent._

"I suppose. Harry and Hermione left shortly after breakfast to work on making Sirius' house habitable. He's perfectly welcome to stay here as long as he needs. I don't understand why he's dead set on moving somewhere else." Arthur wasn't sure how to respond. He had a few theories about the boy's motivations for reoccupying the place, some more innocuous than others, and all of them sure to set his wife off if he brought them up. She was going to have to accept that he wasn't a little boy anymore eventually, but in the wake of William's murder, Arthur wasn't ready to force the issue. "And Arthur," she continued abruptly, voice suddenly tense with worry, "I've been trying now for at least a quarter-hour, but for the life of me, I can't remember where Harry's house _is_."

Arthur allowed himself a genuine smile. _You're certainly taking it well._ "You know, _I've_ been trying for an hour. Looks like Hermione managed the Fidelius Charm. She really is brilliant..." His smile faltered. "I'm sure he'll tell us soon. Probably before the day is out." _One way or another._ "Where are Ron and Luna? I would've expected them to be under your—err—staying around the house, today." _Smooth, Weasley._

Molly giggled derisively. "You expected me to keeping them under my thumb, then? Merlin knows I tried. Luna—saying she was inconsolable wouldn't be right. She's always been off in her own little world, but now she's just so … it's like there's nothing there, Arthur. Her eyes are just … blank. Not even dreamy. She hasn't even cried since the night … it happened. It … it scares me, Arthur. It's not normal."

Arthur felt the now-habitual frown coming back as he squeezed her hands from across the table. He'd expected as much, but it was still hard to hear. "You remember how she reacted when Selene died, Molly. If anything, this is only going to be worse before it gets better." _And more complicated than you could possibly imagine._ He was beating around the bush and he knew it. He would have to tell Molly what he'd learned eventually, and when he did … "So where is she now?"

"She wanted to go for a walk around the pond over the hill. Alone. I told her it was too dangerous and offered to go with her, but that didn't go over well for some reason. She seemed more agreeable to Ron's accompanying her."

Arthur chuckled. "Imagine that. So you let them go?"

Molly frowned. "She wouldn't have gone with me, and she needs to get out. Ron's responsible enough."

_And he's of age, so you couldn't stop him anyway if he really wanted to do something._ "He is, isn't he? I daresay hanging out with Harry and Hermione over the years has been good for him."

"Definitely." There was silence between them for a moment, then Molly spoke, sounding hopeful. "I didn't mention anything to Luna yet … I wanted to wait and make sure everything was in order first. Did Erica have the paperwork ready for you?"

He suppressed a growl. It was time to come clean.

Arthur and William had come to an agreement when Luna was four, after they had been friends for several years. If it should ever come to pass that Luna was left an orphan with no living relatives, she would become a ward of the Weasleys. Neither Selene nor William had any family. All the paperwork was already on file with the Ministry's Office of Child Placement. It should have been as simple as going there and signing a magical contract. The whole thing was designed to be instantaneous and as painless for the orphan as possible, something that would happen near-automatically should the unthinkable came to pass. They'd never mentioned it to Luna. For a while, she was simply too young. After her mother's accident, no one wanted to rub her nose in William's mortality.

Thus, when Arthur arrived at Erica Platt's office and asked for the paperwork only to be informed Luna had already been placed in the custody of her _last living relative_, to say he was shocked would have been an understatement of the grossest degree. What he'd found out after pulling rank on the poor woman and all but interrogating her only made the whole thing more of a mess. And now he had to tell Molly. Joy.

_Might as well bite the bullet._ "We're not adopting Luna. We can't. She's already been placed in the custody of her … her biological father. Her _Muggle_ biological father." _Everything William ever said about her … about Selene. All a lie. Why?_

He could almost see the wheels turning behind her eyes as his wife processed this information. Time seemed to slow down as anger, confusion and shock crashed together behind her pupils. And then, just as quickly, the world recovered from its stumble.

"_What? _" She paled, and her eyes seemed to be in danger of launching themselves violently from her head.

Arthur cursed Voldemort's name then, not even realizing until afterwards that he hadn't used an alias. It didn't seem to matter anymore. No matter what he was called, he was still destroying lives left and right, and now the world itself seemed to be falling apart at the seams. He cleared his throat, and started to explain exactly what he'd heard.


End file.
